


and there is blood dripping on the front page

by zinikornis



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Erik Lehnsherr Speaks German, F/M, Fluff, High School, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinikornis/pseuds/zinikornis
Summary: I could deceive you into thinking this is a cute, fluffy high school au. Do not let yourself be deceived: this is not a love story. This is a story about the dashed soul of our misunderstood Erik.OR: the one with Erik's misery and Charles the savior.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr/Magda (X-Men)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. 1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Magyarul: { https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2020/12/vercseppek-cimlapon.html }

Erik is apathetically harassing a withered leaf drowning in mud with his massive boots.

Cool wind is shivering through the trees ‒ after all, it ought to do so now, on the threshold of winter ‒, but, despite all reason, he couldn’t have been convinced to wear a sweater; clothed in his usual black leather jacket, he is sitting at his usual spot, in the window of the small space under the metal slide. He’s not cold. He’s absolutely fine. Freaking fantastic.

He flicks the ash off from the end of his cigarette, now butt, which is obliged to fall on his knee. Erik watches dispassionately as the grey dust crumbles on his thigh. He blows at it ( _Gänsehaut_ ‒ and he wonders how new the English language really is to have it called goose “bumps” instead of goose “skin”), and the ash is now washed away in the wind, ceased to exist; the only evidence of its once existence is the stain on his jeans. Whether the fabric is burned out or that’s just the mark of the used tobacco, who knows. Who cares.

Lunch break is slowly coming to its end. He lights another cigarette protestingly when a boy marches past him and sits on a bench. He seemingly didn’t spot him under the slide. Erik watches with confusion as the skinny boy pulls out and stocks in front of himself the maximum amount of books a student can carry without suffering permanent back injuries.

Somewhat surprised, but mainly just angrily, he starts methodically killing the poor leaf. (He doesn’t tear his gaze from the boy ‒ those red lips should practically be banned.)

This is his place. No-one ever visited this playground. It could be, with all certainty, called abandoned. Erik was able to be alone here. Well, he _is_ usually alone, he doesn’t really have _friends_ or anything resembling that, having won the title of the school’s lone wolf successfully… but he comes here when he’s absolutely had enough of even the sight of people.

And, of course, this is where he can smoke without being caught. This kind of thing was easier in Germany. In Europe, people are not so concerned about these stupid age limits, opposed to the US.

Eh, brilliant, even more people, Erik notes with a roll of his eyes, as he watches three more boys cross the playground. It definitely seems like the skinny one lured them here, but it definitely seems like it wasn’t on purpose. These guys aren’t his friends ‒ no, these are the bullies of the school, Erik recognizes them.

They tried their luck with him too, right on the day the teacher announced to the whole class that they were getting a new classmate straight from Germany.

Erik wouldn’t have been touched by their badgering and bickering otherwise, however when an incredibly stupid one spat out an incredibly stupid comment like “The Germans, those are the nazis, right?”, then the other two stupidos tasted the word as well, and it was evident that they were planning on using that name instead of the honest and exceptionally simple _Erik_ , well, so he was basically forced to prevent this from happening at any point in the future.

The fatty happened to have his metal watch strangulate his wrist a little bit, the lanky one’s tooth started aching terribly for some reason, and the leader may have not been able to pee for a while after this incident. Since then, they have left him alone.

They heroically resisted the urge even when the class stumbled upon the realization of Erik being Jewish. Hesitantly, they looked at him, then each other, then him again, and stepped closer not-so-confidently. Erik only had to blink at them with a convincing glare, for them to be scared off.

The trio sidles up to the boy. He keeps reading his book, concentrating hard. Brave kid, it has to be noted. It slightly even impresses Erik.

“Charlie, Charlie,” the leader snarks, “whatever are you up to here alone? Where are your weirdo friends?”

“Congratulations on the improvement, evidently you’ve moved on from three word sentences,” the boy says, still deep in his book. Erik is getting curious.

“Who do you think you are?” The fatty steps closer and raises a fist. Erik grimaces at the sound and view in advance.

However, the boy looks up calmly. His eyes like an endless, peaceful ocean, he slides his white fingers on his temple, and says: “Turn around now and get back to minding your own business. It would probably be wisest for you to remember having beaten me. Good job. Now, chop-chop.”

And indeed, the group exchange glances with huge grins, and victoriously march away from the playground. The bell indicating the start of the next period squeals too, just to make the picture perfect.

“Don’t work your brain so hard about this, you didn’t witness anything,” the boy tells the slide. He’s lifting his fingers once again to touch his temple.

“No, wait.” Erik’s head pops out from the nook.

For a short period of time, the guy contemplates him with a raised eyebrow, then opens his mouth, but Erik simply waves his hand as proof, curving the end of the slide’s metal plate. The boy shuts his book with sparkling eyes.

“Wonderful! It’s so refreshing to meet someone similar to me!” He jumps up and hurries to Erik with an extended hand. “I’m Charles Xavier.”

“Erik Lehnsherr. There’s not many of us, I guess.”

“I’m now aware of three, but I’m curious how many others are in this school only. If there are others, they don’t favor showing the signs of their mutations. I suppose it’s rather understandable.”

“Three? Mutation?”

“My sister, Raven is a shapeshifter. Well, to be honest, we’re not related by blood but we grew up together. Shall we sit?” Charles nods in the direction of the bench.

After short hesitance, Erik hops on the back, next to a sympathetic rusty nail. Charles puckers his brow, then begins to quickly arrange his books back into his backpack.

“I’ve been examining the matter,” says Charles excitedly, “and I’ve reached the conclusion that this is, without doubt, a mutation, it starts with a specific gene which can be found in some people… Many questions remain to be unanswered though, for the time being at least. Lehnsherr, you said? Is it German?”

Erik hides a smile, and notes in his head: so far this kid is the only one who pronounces his name correctly.

“Yes.”

“It has a nice ring to it.”

Charles takes a seat on the back of the bench too, and crosses his legs in his pristinely pressed trousers.

“Yours sounds unique too.”

“Thank you.”

Awkward silence creeps between them. Erik ducks his head perplexedly, starts to pick on the burned-out hole on his jeans, and desperately tries to search for something to say. Although he’s generally not bothered by silence, in fact it usually comes because of him, now, for some reason, he wants to speak, talk to this person who’s not only like him _(Mutant)_ , but he also seems interesting, and he’s _very, very pretty_.

When he looks up, he finds himself in front of Charles’ laugh lines.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he blushes. “I really don’t eavesdrop that indecently but when a feeling or thought is dominant, it’s simply so loud I can’t not notice it.”

“Ah.”

This boy. Apologized. For eavesdropping. On his thoughts. _He apologized for that._

After some more silence Charles exclaims: “I know why you are so familiar! You’re the German exchange student, right? You’re a senior, one year older than me.”

“I’m not an exchange student. I moved here. So to say.”

“Excuse me then, I must have been misinformed.”

“Only half misinformed. The German part is true.”

“I’ve only been to Europe one time, in England. It was a breathtaking experience.”

“I’ve never been there. But Germany is good.” As a matter of fact, he can’t compare it, as he hasn’t had any chances to travel. Money either. Actually, he’s familiar with only a small fraction of his own country too. He decides to change the subject. “You don’t look like, uhm, someone who skips classes.”

Charles blinks in confusion.

Erik clears his throat. “Next period started.”

“Oh that. I’m not a slacker. Many teachers accepted the terms I presented to them after it became clear to everyone that I’m here to actually learn, in contrast to most of my peers. My knowledge grows faster and more effectively by studying alone.”

Erik smiles and shakes his head. He could have suspected so.

“You are, I presume, a slacker.”

“I don’t think the concept of mandatory school works.”

“Education is indispensable for intellectual growth.”

“I don’t like the idea of random people being crowded into a room and a next random person trying to feed their heads information that is random too but also unnecessary. If I’m interested in something, I’ll look it up myself.”

“However, in today’s society, it’s expected to have finished at least high school in order to be able to pursue further education or find a job.”

Erik cracks his wrist. “I can be persuasive.”

Charles regards him with narrowed eyes. “The skill you’re thinking of has its control centered here,” he strokes Erik’s forehead shortly. Then he points at his hands and adds: “Not there.”

As the next break arrives, they walk back to the building together. Erik automatically targeted the fence, or, rather, the hole in the fence where he usually sneaks out; Charles smiled at him generously and signaled to follow him. He’s allowed to go through the entrance.

Erik is sliding through the puddles uninterestedly with his thick boots, Charles is weaving between them energetically with his elegant leather shoes. As a purely subsidiary consideration, Erik’s mind skeptically produces the question: _how_ , and his gaze wanders to the bag more than full of heavy books. Charles bats his eyelashes coyly (the height difference between their lips could be solved with just a little bend), and shrugs.

Entering the school, Erik begins to wonder what comes now, what he should do, but Charles takes control: he seems confident standing up on his tiptoes and shortly, yet meaningfully hugging him. After a “nice meeting you” and a conspiratorial smile, he makes his way among crowds of students.

Erik stands around a while longer, rooted in the ground, then finally he snaps out of it and stops by class fashionably late.


	2. 2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2020/12/vercseppek-cimlapon-2.html

They meet at lunch break the next day too.

Erik is sitting under the slide, his boots are sinking into the still wet earth. By the time Charles resolutely marches to the bench, he already finished his poor sandwich he prepared this morning.

Shortly after, the trio show up and leave, satisfied again.

Erik slips out from under the slide, and shouts over: “Won’t they figure out after a while that you’re not actually beaten the shit out of?”

Charles doesn’t straight up from his book, and waves. “They won’t. Others might, I haven’t explored that option yet. But let’s say they were smart enough not to hit my face.”

“These? These wouldn’t be.”

“I suppose you’ve been approached as well?”

“ _Ja,_ ” grunts Erik. “One of them was planning on calling me a nazi. He regretted it.”

The boy glances up at him the way they do at naughty little children: small signs of disapproval appear on his face but smiles forgivingly. Then he goes back to studying.

Erik feels like he’s obliged to compound. “The human race is destined for extinction.”

“Come on… there’s still hope. Dummies exist, and they always will, however, this doesn’t nullify the presence of goodness.”

“I’ve been thinking of what you said. That what we have is a mutation,” says Erik, and Charles curiously raises his attention to him again. “If I’m correct, evolution is also a mutation. Or something like that. And this means that we’re further evolved beings.”

Charles straightens and drops his wringed hands in his lap. “Mutations can operate in a negative direction too, but yes, looking at the matter this way, we could potentially be the future. When we find out how many of us are out there, and if that number isn’t insignificant, we’ll have to cooperate with the government to establish peaceful coexistence.”

Erik snorts. “I don’t think you go with such a civilized way. You’ll see, once we are discovered, their terror begins. They’ll try to hide us, push us into cells… destroy us.”

“Now this is a pessimistic mindset. I believe that humanity has overcome its petty animal instincts. I believe that we can work out a mature, calm option.”

“Now this is an optimistic mindset.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the idea is that these only show a portion of their days (the portion they spend together). There are going to be longer chapters to come, don't worry! <3


	3. 3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2021/01/vercseppek-cimlapon-3.html

After the fighting trio left the next day, Erik, having gained some courage, sits beside his new mutant friend. Strictly on the back of the bench.

Charles squints, then manages to say: “I appreciate your interest in talking to me, but we’ve been doing that in the lunch breaks these last couple of days, and I’m slightly behind with my studies…”

Erik smiles. He thinks: not that you couldn’t catch up in ten minutes. He says: “Study then.”

This time, it’s a comfortable silence. Erik, between two puffs of his cigarette, watches with a soft look as Charles browses through pages, scribbles comments on the margins or his messy notebook, and every now and then mumbles some words with confusion that make little to no sense to Erik.

Suddenly, the realization strikes Erik with overwhelming force that somehow, for some reason, at some point (with his nose in a book? with his fingers on his forehead? ridiculously jumping around puddles?) he fell in love with this guy. Closely followed by this, fear strikes him too because Charles might be hearing this, so he desperately tries to find something, anything, that can replace this realization.

“Do you understand my thoughts in German?”

Charles is still deep in his reading.

Erik clears his throat. “Charles?”

The boy jerks his head up. “Yes, dear?”

His heart dumbly skips a beat.

“Do you understand my thoughts in German too?”

“Sadly I don’t understand them in any other languages. However, instead of concrete words, thoughts are often visualized as pictures, symbols, feelings…”

Erik grins. Just to tease the boy, he thinks as hard as he can that he’s going to have only German words in his mind from now on. Charles raises an eyebrow, and Erik feels like he’s seeing right through him.

The boy asks, batting his long lashes theatrically: “What could you possibly have to hide?”

“Nothing from you, honey.”

With a raised brow, Charles stands his glare for a while (he could simply drown in those ocean blue eyes any time), then he looks back at his book and sighs.

“I think that’s enough studying for one day.” He glances at his watch, then up at Erik. “What do you think about chess?”

So it happens that Charles pulls out the board which miraculously fit in his bag, and they start a game.

“I’ve only played alone until now,” admits Charles at some point. His voice sounds gloomy.

Erik looks at the boy who is eyeing the board and chewing his lip, and he goes soft. He wants to reply with something kind.

“I hope I’m a worthy opponent,” he says at last, and he feels he didn’t succeed.

Charles downright glows at him. “I don’t consider you an opponent.”

Or maybe he did succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, you can have the next chapter now.  
>  _(And there's also going to be a little surprise later this weekend...)_


	4. 4. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2021/01/vercseppek-cimlapon-4.html

On Thursday, nothing worthy of mentioning happens, because that’s just how Thursdays are.

The day goes by similarly to the ones before: Erik suffers through most of his classes, the whole time waiting for that one after lunch when Charles finishes studying and they play chess.

And from now on, Erik corrects himself during every single one of their games: no, he fell in love  _ now, _ and now, and now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me... We're getting closer to the end of the week which means longer chapters are coming. Or, at least, chapters of normal length. Hang on, lovelies :)


	5. 5. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2021/01/vercseppek-cimlapon-5.html

It happens differently on Friday. When Charles marches to the playground that day, he rushes straight to Erik, and leans close to him under the slide, so close that Erik can smell his scent, and he thinks how very easy it would be to cross that little distance between them ‒ but he can’t, he reminds himself, and quickly, he diverts his thoughts.

Charles’ soft, silky palm takes Erik’s calloused and dry hand (his tummy flips), and drags him to the bench. He yells on the way: “Chess time!”

Erik laughs at him mercilessly.

While Charles is setting up the game, Erik, screw it, asks: “No studying today?”

“It’s Friday.”

“I would’ve expected you to study on Friday too.”

“Even the biggest brains need to rest sometimes.” After Charles has put the last figure on the board, he stops and squints at Erik. “You were white yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yet, one of the biggest brains has a not-so-well functioning memory part.”

“I remember the important things…”

Dramatically, Erik grasps and slaps his heart. “Charles, love, are you saying our games mean nothing to you?”

Charles’ delicate laugh fills Erik’s heart in response. Although it was more than enough for him to have heard him laugh, the boy speaks too.

“I really didn’t mean to indicate that, Erik dear. In fact, quite the contrary. I must admit, our games have made these hours especially joyful to me.”

“Studying wasn’t joyful enough?”

“I have other kinds of needs too,” grins Charles. Before Erik can answer (and oh, he has such witty and funny comebacks in mind, not only one), Charles tilts his head and says: “Seems like some people don’t rest on Fridays.”

Erik stares confusedly until the trio’s now usual appearance in the corner of his eye.

The leader neighs: “Oopsie-whoopsie, Charlie boy, you’re friends now with the black sheep?”

“Nice of you to ask; it actually seems so,” Charles informs him. He puts an arm on the back of the bench with a move he intends to be casual, and so, on Erik’s shoulder.

The group shares looks hesitantly. The lanky one shrugs and shouts dumbly, pointing at their position: “Faggots!”

Erik rolls his head casually, cracking his bones significantly, to which the lanky one snaps out of it, and yanks his hand back, as if it got burned.

Charles looks at him scoldingly. “But Erik dear…”

The aforementioned wasn’t ashamed though, being that he couldn’t pay attention to anything other than those enchantingly beautiful, blue eyes.

Turning back to the group, Charles goes on: “Thank you for your input. As flattered as I am by the very assumption that I’d be in the league of this‒”

“I don’t care,” spits out the lanky one.

“Then why are you here?” Erik snaps. Because he would’ve cared.

“Hey, he speaks,” the lanky guy nudges the leader’s side. He grunts mockingly.

Erik continues tenaciously. “You know, I see you do, in fact, care. Judging by you being here every single day, consistently.”

“What, you watched it all? You’re a great friend,” notes the fatty sarcastically.

“Well now, _you_ really can’t be the judge of that…”

Seeing that the fat one’s face is turning red from anger, and probably hearing the additional information, Charles says: “Anyhow, we’re grateful for today’s meet-up. Are we done?”

The group exchange looks; even Erik can almost hear as their brains try working. At last, the leader nods as a sign of approval, and Charles, already knowing what the yes was for, utters disappointedly: “Oh how dumb you are, boys.”

In the fraction of the next seconds, the group gets to the job. First, the lanky guy jumps to Erik who’s sitting with an emotionless look, and who, in the next moment, leans sideways, almost to Charles’ shoulder, giving way to the meeting of the fist and the bench. Meanwhile, the leader tosses himself in the direction of Charles ‒ Erik jerks his head, and the guy, out of mysterious reasons, squeaks and backs off.

Charles reaches for his head. “Stop it. You don’t want to get any more hurt, so you turn around and get on your way.” He lowers his arm and smiles at the boys. “Have a nice rest of the day.”

Erik, wandering, watches the pouting trio storm away, and forces himself to straighten.

“What do you think it will be like now?”

“I hope they’ll put a pause on visits, considering that they weren’t successful this time.”

“Oh, you relentless optimist.” Erik gently bumps Charles’ arm, just to touch him. He then glances down at the prepared board sitting in between them, and pushes a white figure forward without reaching for it. “Your turn, faggy.”

I could deceive you into thinking this is a cute, fluffy love story. Do not let yourself be deceived: this is not a love story. This is a story about the dashed soul of our misunderstood Erik. And it goes like this.

After this, they start spending more and more, and gradually, all their time together in school, while it becomes some sort of inside joke of theirs to call each other various synonyms of fag, and the occasional pretending that they are, in fact, in a relationship. Erik hovers around Charles when he catches one of his teachers on the fly in the hallways to discuss something; cosying up in the corner, he shares his earphones with him while Charles is reading, and leans into him; and he also peeks into ‒ and leaves immediately ‒ the study club that, as it turned out, Charles organized and now takes place twice a week after school.

Then, after suffering through Charles perpetually urging him for a long while (it was no use telling him what he would do upon hearing the “this is your last year” reasoning one more time), he tries again. This time, he sits.

Although he only mentions this to Charles subtly and with many corrections, he did, in fact, enjoy it. The guy has a charmingly effective way of explaining things, and for every learning difficulty, he has a great tip that actually works. (Not that he tried, immediately the night after the first lesson, at the shaky table with his only textbook he found.) The group mainly consists of unimpressive weirdos, the names of whom Erik isn’t interested in learning. Nor anything at all about them.

All in all though, Erik came to kind of _like_ school. Or, at least, he somewhat enjoys now the time he spends there.

So everything’s all well and good, and they live happily ever after ‒ except that this is only a small segment of the story.

Speaking of which…

On a Friday weeks later, when languid storm clouds cover the sky and harsh wind lurks in the muddy leaves on the ground, Erik, who has ventured down to the bench, is now examining the chess board in front of himself, therefore he can’t see that Charles forgot his eyes on him.

“Are you winning so often because you’re reading my mind?” Erik asks the board.

“I am winning so often because I’ve spent countless hours practicing. I play fair.”

“It would be fair to use your power. There’s a reason why you have it.”

“I’d like to maintain the balance of powers between us. Otherwise I’d feel bad.”

Erik moves a figure, and leaning back, he stares into Charles’ face with narrowed eyes. “I won.”

Charles nods congratulatory. “Congratulations.” He sweeps the pieces into their little satchel.

“You let me.”

“Please. I’d never be that improper.”

(But there are improper things you could do.) “I appreciate you’re paying attention to my feelings.”

Charles sinks the game into his bag, and slides closer. “Naturally,” he says, and casually throws his arm on the back of the bench, holding his pretty face with it, which certainly displays some sort of sudden decision, and he blinks up at Erik. Who, not knowing any better, just blinks back at him from across. “In fact, I must admit I may be paying more attention to your feelings than it would be ethical.”

In the next moment, Charles leans forward, and presses his lips to Erik’s.

Without so much as a second thought, Erik eagerly grabs the man’s silky hair and pulls him close to himself. His chapped lips open up, letting in the soft tongue that starts exploring the corners of his mouth with curiosity and experimental carefulness.

He moans quietly into the kiss when Charles doesn’t wait long to run his fingers, covered in those ridiculous gloves, under his leather jacket. He feels the weight and warmth of the hand, but doesn’t feel the touch, and this is the first time he curses himself for giving in to Charles’ entreaty to wear a pullover.

Instinctively, he pushes his waist forward, right to the leg that’s blocking its way. Charles, realizing this, giggles into the kiss adorably, manages to free his leg from between them, and wiggles closer, so Erik’s crotch can press against his. This time it’s Charles’ turn to moan, and the warmth of his hand wanders on Erik’s upper body who can’t get himself to move his own hands from the boy’s hair and face. He’s stubbornly gripping and squeezing him, never ever wanting to let go.

“It’s raining,” whispers Charles into his mouth after a while.

And now Erik feels the wetness on his body that he hadn’t noticed. Lo and behold: here comes reality.

He sighs, and, after preparing himself mentally and gathering all his fortitude, removes his hands that are still desperately trying to hold onto Charles’ wet curls. He clears his throat, bites his Charles-flavored lip, and spits out reluctantly, in voice hoarse from the kiss: “Uhm. So _this_ is what we can’t do.”

Charles stares at him with furrowed brows. “You literally can’t think of anything else.”

“It’s one thing that I want to.” Erik reaches out and strokes Charles’ flushed face, then lowers his arm. “But we can’t.”

The boy grabs his bag. “We’re getting completely soaked. Let’s go in, you can tell me on the way.”

Erik stays seated and glares at the ground with steely eyes. “I… have a girlfriend. Her name is Magda.”

Charles freezes and eyes him for a while that feels like the longest and painfullest while in history.

He doesn’t look back at him. It’s easier this way. (No, there’s no way this is easy.)

At last, Charles throws his bag on his shoulder, and slowly leaves Erik’s range of vision, the playground, and, he fears, his life. He wants to reach and clutch and grasp, drag him back to himself, he wants to hug him tightly, anything, anything, just to be beside him; and it may have been physically harder for Charles to move further away ‒ as if a weak but real force was pulling him to the other direction.

Erik stays on the cold bench for long minutes, staring blankly into himself, rather than in front of himself, and bears the merciless rain

drip-drip-dripping  
on his pat-pat-pate   
(he deserves it)

Then he leaves behind the scenery and returns to the building, holding in his palm the pieces of his torn soul.

Some are missing.

(Some are gone.)


	6. 6. Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2021/01/vercseppek-cimlapon-6.html

The truth is that Erik would happily leave Magda at any given moment ‒ he would choose Charles over and over again and again and forever.

But the story is, as always, more nuanced than it seems to the outside viewer.

On the afternoon of their first encounter (when they realized one another’s powers), Erik goes to Magda’s. They eat dinner in the girl’s room, and Erik is thinking about Charles during their chat.

On the afternoon of their second (when they discussed mutations), third (when they played chess for the first time), and fourth encounter, he goes to Magda’s. They make love, and he thinks of Charles during.

On the afternoon of their fifth encounter (when the trio called them fags), he stays in the school until closing time, then wanders around the block, and even sits around the playground for a while. He goes to Magda’s with a wide detour, because where else would he go.

Erik lives at Magda’s.

When he moved to the US, he was, for a short period of time ‒ which seemed awfully long ‒, staying in a crappy, cheap motel, and was spending most of his free time in a nearby pub, browsing through news and jobs in the paper. He did find some odd jobs occasionally; payment was shitty, work was hard, but at least it got the room paid, if nothing else. The location of one of the repair jobs was a yoga studio’s backroom ‒ he met the sweet, innocent Magda there. Erik needed a bed, Magda needed love (and secretly every girl loves broken guys), so they had mutually seduced each other.

He knows that her parents don’t like him very much ‒ they do like the happiness he brings to their kid however, so they let it. They tell their disapproving friends, “These youngsters are so adorably in love that we don’t have it in us to tear them apart.” Probably Magda is, as Erik sees, truly in love. She’s important to him too, of course, he’s grown to like her, care about her ‒ he’s not in love though. But he still needs the bed.

He had been telling himself it was okay because Magda was happy, and he was basically living with a friend who he sometimes slept with. It’s okay.

Now he tells himself it’s okay because Magda is happy, and he basically lives with a friend who he sometimes sleeps with ‒ it’s just that now he has another friend he wants to sleep with. Everything’s totally okay.

He knows that many things are not okay.

Erik continues his investigation every single afternoon: beside other options, he tries at the library, the newspapers, even the police. Although he hasn’t gotten far yet, he is not going to give up until he finds Shaw. He vowed revenge for what he’s done with his family, for making him leave his homeland.

The moonlight is bright tonight. It shines from behind the lace curtains in a long plume into the powder-colored room, onto the soft, canopy bed, on one side of which Magda is sleeping sound and undisturbed.

On the other side, tossing and turning, Erik is drowning in his sweat and tangling up in the earlier squeaky-clean sheets. The dreadful picture keeps sliding into his dreams: a figure becomes visible in the dim light… his mother, once full of life, is now pale, lying in a deep red pool, with her cold, frightened eyes staring right at him. On the wall, there’s a message written with blood,

drip-drip-dripping.

He rouses suddenly, gasping for air; his nerves make his eyes pop and his body spring up to a sitting position.

He knows, oh-so-well he knows that nothing is okay.

But one thing becomes a bit more okay when Charles appears on the playground the next Monday. Instead of the bench, he marches right to Erik, and climbs under the slide.

He sits down across him, not beside.

“Hello,” says Charles.

“Hello,” says Erik.

Then they’re just blinking at each other.

“I came to realize that we should handle the situation maturely. With your consent, of course. I’d like to continue our chess games with you, if nothing else. When you’re ready, I’m happy to talk about your situation that keeps your brain spinning endlessly, and that, by the way, I know only so much about that it bothers you to an alerting degree. Either way, I’ll do my best to keep myself completely out of your head. What do you think?

Erik blinks some more, then answers: “Okay.”

And it’s truly okay soon.

At an alarming speed, they get used to their old way of behaving again, that they, by the way, had gotten used to at an alarming speed in the beginning. Their first game after this is slightly awkward and clumsy, but when Erik accidentally dents the board in his embarrassment, they burst out in laughter, making all the suppressed excitement come to the surface, and just like that, they’re back to being the same dynamic duo.

There’s a remote, short part of a hallway where people are hardly ever seen, making it not only quiet but private too. This hallway section becomes their indoors spot after Charles contritely confesses that it’s been too cold for him for a while, otherwise he would have stayed in, he only kept going outside in the lunch breaks because of Erik.

Erik reassures him with a heartfelt smile that the end of this hallway is also perfect for him.

At a longer recess on a busy Tuesday, Erik is sitting alone here for a while, listening to music and waiting for Charles ‒ because that’s what he does now, he’s waiting, in all parts of his life, for Charles to show up, and for some reason, this is unquestionably natural to him.

When Charles turns up in the distance, Erik’s heart leaps idiotically, and these last few minutes of waiting suddenly become seemingly unbearable.

Then the boy finally comes close, and Erik can’t fight a goofy smile creeping up to his face.

“Excuse me for being late,” sighs Charles.

“You’re excused.”

Charles drops on the ground and lays his smart, beautiful head on Erik’s shoulder.

“I seem to be incredibly busy today, and it’s not over yet. It’s as if people conspired that today was the only possible day to pile all existing tasks and problems on me, and me only.”

“They know too that you’re the best solution.”

Erik feels the corners of Charles’ mouth curling up and his head snuggling more into his neck.

“I think my brain capacity is gone. They can’t possibly expect me to do anything conductive anymore.”

“But you’re still using words like conductive. Of course.”

“Of course.”

Charles sighs, right into Erik’s skin, in response to which Erik is filled with a pleasant warmth, and, honestly, arousal. He tries to ignore the wet lips accidentally touching his collarbone over and over again. He doesn’t really succeed.

“You’re too foreign,” adds Charles sleepily. “Conductive is, like, a totally basic word, you know.”

“Yeah, like, totally.”

Silence follows, and after a while, Erik makes complete peace with the thought that Charles fell asleep on his shoulder.

Then he hears his voice.

“Say a German word.”

“What German word?”

“Any German word.”

Erik considers his options briefly, but the first word he thought of bursts out unstoppably:  _ “Sehnsucht.” _

“Hmm,” Charles comments. “What does it mean?”

“You never said anything about a meaning.”

“Use it in a sentence, then.”

And so it happens that Erik carries out a complete monologue instead of a single sentence, voicing all his emotions, ideas and frustration regarding his situation, Charles, and the two combined; all the things he’d never dare to voice if the boy understood.

Meanwhile Charles is watching him in awe; and so it happens that, after this instance, every time he’s tired, he asks Erik in an irresistible manner to sing to him in German. Erik, of course, fulfills the request happily. He’s discussed many different topics with himself this way.

At one point, he simply starts to read aloud from his all-time favorite book, the only book he’s brought with himself. Charles generally feels much obliged, but now even more so, as he, recognizing the work, catches some words and understands some plotlines ‒ and what would be more enticing to Charles than more knowledge?

On a  _ meh  _ Thursday, Erik becomes irritated by the school just  _ alle zusammen _ as soon as first period, so Charles forbearingly drags him to the end of the hallway, and, sitting on their pullovers, puts his head in Erik’s lap. Those kind-blue eyes blink up at him so irresistibly that he can’t help but let his fingers wander into the boy’s perfect hair, and starts stroking his head lazily. Charles purrs for a while, and Erik unspeakably (do not speak;  _ do not even think _ ) enjoys this sound he can provoke with his touch.

Then Charles begins to speculate about some sort of subject within the field of genetics. This is what he does, on request, when Erik is in a cranky mood. Although he can’t contribute, Charles’ voice soothes him, and secretly ‒ or not so secretly ‒, his smart words and thoughts make him that much more attractive to Erik. And Charles is happy to elaborate on his views, of course, even if they fall on deaf ears. In fact, one of these times it’s happened that he actually realized something only because of saying it out loud.

Erik secretly ‒ or not so secretly ‒ adores their moments spent here.

Months pass, and Erik doesn’t share much about Magda, their relationship, his mother, or why he’s come here ‒ all the questions Charles is very eager to hear the answer to. They mainly talk about their games, studying, Charles’ life, Raven (whom Erik still hasn’t met), or just have general discussions about various topics. (Charles can’t complain, of course, he’s enjoying this as well ‒ he enjoys anything they do together.)

Erik doesn’t stop visiting the study club. Nor his investigation.

For a few months, everything calms down around him as he resigns himself to his situation, and by the time the warmth of spring arrives, he gets kind of used to this quiet stillness in his life.

Then, in May, on a gloomy day promising to be stormy, Charles doesn’t see Erik in school the whole day. He’s not even there on the playground at lunch break. Disappointed, he packs away the chess board. He thought he would have at least informed him if he was going to miss school.

The same thing happens again the next day and the day after that too. Weeks go by when Charles gets fed up with the guessing because, as a matter of fact, he began to worry about his friend. He decides to see what’s going on with Erik.

(cold sewer cover muddy darkness static racket noise of the rain heart-breaking crying)

Knock-knock-knock ‒ Charles waits in front of the office of the aging principal.

First, they get the obligatory courtesy rounds done, then Charles urgently changes the subject to Erik.

“No word on him since weeks,” says the principal, clearly upset. “Nothing!”

(Yes, Charles has noticed that, thank you very much.)

“Do you have any idea how much paperwork that means? Not even mentioning the responsibility…” huffs the man. “Calling in sick, even that only occurred to him after a week of not coming in. One week!”

Charles jerks his head up. “When did this call happen?”

“I’ve no idea. I could look into it if you want. I’d say about over two weeks.”

“Thank you, sir. Just one more question, if you’ll let me.” Charles doesn’t know her last name, and there’s not much chance the principal knows her, but he asks on a  _ screw-it _ basis: “Would you, perhaps, happen to know in which class may I find his girlfriend, Magda?”

The principal freezes. His brain starts working, trying to find the right words. Finally, he says, with a grim look on his face: “Oh Charles. So you don’t know?”

Well, now he does.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, then shakes his head with clenched teeth.

The bald man rubs his weary face. He reaches for a piece of paper, scribbles an address, date and time on it, and slides it to Charles across the table.

“Tragic, if I say so. Tragic!”

Tin-heart beat-be-beats in tin-man. Soul formed from crappy newspaper; torn, chewed, pieced together ‒ murder on the front page.

Some pieces are missing.

(Some are gone.)

He merely imitates breathing. He, too, is already in the grave anyway. If he climbed in next to his mother or Magda, it would be completely self-evident, nobody would confront him for it, he’s sure.

But he resiliently keeps on looking ‒ now he doesn’t care about anything but one thing.

With dry, blod-shot eyes and an uncontrollable desire for revenge, he’s scanning the black crowd listening to the priest. Ants. Not important. Expendable.

Erik is standing in a modest corner of a grandiose church. He dressed up well, the best he could, his nape is dirty, however, and an unpleasant scent surrounds him. He thinks it’s ironic that he’s standing in a Christian church, but it’s the least ‒ and the only thing ‒ he can do now for Magda.

Oh, and he’s holding an infant in each arm, clumsily wrapped in bedsheets instead of swaddling clothes. Fortunately, he has somehow managed to get them to sleep.

He spots Charles only when it’s too late: the boy is already sneaking decidedly in his direction between the rows of pews. Reaching him, he whispers firmly: “Come outside. It would be impolite to talk in here.”

Charles heads to the door, and Erik follows unwillingly.

He drops down right there, at the decorated door of the church, swaying one child dangerously close to the concrete. Charles eyes him worriedly, and sits beside him on the ground. Holding the head with one hand, he carefully takes the child nearer to him, and watches the small, calm face with fascination.

“Have you named them yet?”

Erik stares at the one left in his lap with empty eyes. “I don’t even know which is which.”

Charles looks at him uneasily, and wonders with brows furrowed about what to do, how to help. Of course, Erik doesn’t realize this at all. He may not even know where he is exactly.

When he speaks again, it feels like he didn’t even notice he paused.

“But Magda named them. Pietro and Wanda with a double-u. Because she wanted to be this fucking unique. And because of her Polish roots or whatever.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Erik glances at him over his shoulder; Charles is smilingly hugging and dandling the baby.

Like someone is reaching through his chest, sharp claws ripping into his heart, he feels like… no, not  _ “like”  _ ‒ he feels, he clearly feels the delicate tissue of the organ tearing, his blood starting to flow all through his insides.

Drip-drip-dripping.

Erik is crouching on a cold sewer cover in the muddy darkness. The static racket of the bridge’s traffic creeps into his ears from above, mixing with the noise of the rain.

(Drip-drip-dripping.)

Heart-breaking crying right beside him.

He presses his palms on his ears and massages his temple with dirty fingers. This might make it better.

(There’s no use.)

He lowers his arms resignedly. Feeling powerless, he punches into the earth. A defeated cry, a whine stuck in the throat, rather. Painful breath. Tormenting yawn.

He curls up in the mud and holds the flushed babies close ‒  _ his babies _ ‒ so they’ll get some of his body’s little heat. Their pain is somewhat eased by this, and soon they fall asleep. As a constant reminder, as a bell of guilt, their small, empty tummies rumble every now and then.

They’re just kids! Leave the kids out of this! ‒ With steel in his eyes and veins, he presses hard against the devil-may-care, cruel laugh of Shaw.

Eyes wide shut, he squeezes his eyelids so tight that those dancing spots appear ‒ however, the haunting picture is not bothered by this, it easily slithers in behind them.

In Magda’s powder-colored bedroom Magda is laying on the silk carpet,   
everything’s red, from the wall drip-drip-dripping…

“You could use a shower,” states Charles, wrinkling up his nose.

Erik looks around with a hectic glare and a frightened ‒ furious ‒ shout stuck in his throat. He then feels the hard concrete under him, the heavy church door behind him, and Charles beside him…

“Don’t you say,” sighs Erik. “It would be nice.”

“Come on.” The boy jumps to his feet, and extends an arm in support. “I’ve got a tub that’s exactly for this very purpose.”

Honestly, Erik doesn’t have the strength to play polite, nor to resist. He nods tiredly, and follows the boy.

When Charles pokes him to signal their arrival, Erik thinks as hard as he is possibly able in this state whether this could truly be reality.

Because they are standing in front of a castle, and that’s no exaggeration: it’s a high building of several stories, made of stone… They are standing in front of an actual castle, with a long, organized garden and aesthetic ivy everywhere.

After some gaping in disbelief, Erik forms some words. “You live here?”

With a subtle smile, Charles nods for him to follow. He gets taken into an elegant, spacey lobby through the curved entrance door. The soles of their shoes are tapping on the winding marble stairs. Every single move echoes in the emptiness of the house.

Erik wakes from his haze to Charles lifting a baby from him and placing it beside the other one in a thickly padded, aged cradle that somehow got there.

As he feels Charles’ soft hand on his own, he holds onto it instinctively, grabbing it with all his remaining strength, and follows his careful lead into a neat bedroom. There’s a queen-sized, antique bed in the middle of it with an invitingly thick mattress.

Charles gently pushes him down to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and, leaning above, starts undressing him. Erik watches his eyes; he sees them when the boy is at eye-level, he sees them when his vision isn’t blurry.

In Magda’s powder-colored bedroom Magda is laying on the silk carpet.

The red lake is growing rapidly under Magda’s head, a red stream is flowing from between Magda’s legs, two red newborns are crying on Magda’s breasts.

The last sight Magda’s eyes saw were the twins. Their children.

Shaw sniggers and steps over Magda’s body disrespectfully. He reaches for the weeping babies, and Erik shouts with iron will: “You leave them alone!”

From the wall, red droplets

Erik is crouching on a cold sewer cover in the muddy darkness. The static racket of the bridge’s traffic creeps into his ears from above, mixing with the noise of the rain. Heart-breaking crying right beside him.

Drip-drip‒

Erik is sitting in a tub of hot water in a creamy white room. Silence flows from the distance, beside, around, everywhere: calm, still silence. Only the tap is dripping.

He pinches his nose and dives under. When he comes up again, he sees the sparkling, now brown water. Looking around, he grabs a pink soap waiting on a porcelain plate. It smells feminine. He squats and starts rubbing his body, wherever and however he can, desperately trying to wash down all the guilt, sadness and anger ‒ yes, the powerless anger, especially that.

All through his poor, lacking life, he had never spent money on shampoo as soap did the job well enough, but he got used to using it at Magda’s. He looks around, and, although not expecting to, he finds three.

One of the bottles is purple with “shampoo for women” written on it. The other is white, and it claims to be a “conditioner,” whatever that might be, he doesn’t mull over it for long. He succeeds on the third try, it reads on the black bottle unmistakably: “shampoo for men.” While rubbing the gooey liquid in his hair, he wonders what the difference could be between the man and woman version of it.

He steps out of the tub, at last, with wet hair and smelling like some sort of flower. He lurches off balance. Clutching the sink, he walks unsteadily to the pile on the toilet. There’s a towel at the top that has been freshly washed (and probably ironed too ‒ people  _ iron  _ their towels?), and some neatly folded, crisp clothes under that.

He dries himself, and puts on the grey sweatpants and short-sleeved t-shirt. It’s a bit too small. Never mind.

He wanders off to the corridor, and he gets lost only three times on his actually destinationless journey until he finds company. Charles is drinking tea and flipping through a newspaper on a couch in the middle of a spacious living room. On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling window, golden sunbeams shine vigorously.

Charles’ face shines up similarly upon noticing him. “Oh, you’re awake! Did you sleep well?”

“Never better,” utters Erik, albeit remembering little to nothing about sleeping, yesterday, or, on that note, the past couple of days.

“Come,” Charles appears next to him and touches his hand, “let’s eat something.”

In the dining room, because there’s a separate dining room here, Charles offers a seat at the long wooden table to Erik, then vanishes behind a swing-door.

He comes back balancing a big tray. After putting multiple dishes to the table, he sits on Erik’s right. He smiles encouragingly. “Please, feel free. Make yourself at home.”

Words actually fail Erik. One day he’s rotting in hell on earth, the other he’s sleeping in a fucking castle and feasts from an all-you-can-eat buffet. He considers the option of this being a delirious dream, as in these past weeks, for all he knows ‒ everything’s pretty foggy though ‒, he hasn’t slept much because everything was hard and cold and noisy, and hasn’t eaten much because he’s spent every penny he had on the kids.

Oh, the kids.

He clears his throat. “Uhm. The kids…?”

“I believe the term  _ babies _ is more fitting. But maybe  _ newborn  _ is correct to be used in this phase of life. I need to get some books on the topic…” Charles is pensively chewing something he’s pinched off from the corner of a plate. After a while, evidently, he realizes he hasn’t answered Erik’s question. “Oh yes. I’ve fed them. Now it’s time for their afternoon nap.”

Erik blinks with relief and gratefulness and love, and he’s very-very much hoping that these and so much more and every other unspoken emotion really comes through his eyes, or at least can be felt somehow.

Charles smiles at him softly and strokes his hand, indicating that he knows. Then he just says: “Eat something.”

Erik feels like everything’s going to be okay.


	7. 7. Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was it. It's not much, by all means, not the best either, but it's been a delight writing it. Thank you for tagging along. I hope you enjoyed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magyarul: https://andweweremadlyinlove.blogspot.com/2021/01/vercseppek-cimlapon-7.html

“Pietro, I’m not going to say it again. Come here.”

“But I was there! Nothing happened so I came away.”

“Then come here again and put your bum down.”

Little Pietro slides to Erik defiantly and drops down to the floor. Erik puts the newly bought apron on him impatiently and after some trouble he ties a clumsy bow behind his back. Pietro joyfully joins his sister who is already standing on a chair by the counter.

“We’re making lasagne today,” announces Erik as he’s grabbing a seemingly expensive casserole dish.

Wanda points out: “But daddy’s not eating meat!”

Erik rolls his eyes. Charles and his friend group from university are entertaining themselves lately by coming up with various challenges. They even built a complicated scoring and punishment system too. Anyways, the current challenge is to deprive Charles of the joys of eating meat.

“We’ll leave meat out of the half of it,” grunts Erik.

“Lame!” adds Pietro.

“We should at least put some vegetables in it…”

“Eh, okay. Pietro, check what kind of vegetables are in the fridge.”

Meanwhile Wanda washes the prepared tomatoes in the golden sink, and handing it to Erik he starts slicing them.

“There’s cucumber, the other kind of cucumber, the purple thing, and carrots.”

Erik stares at Wanda with furrowed brows who, after a sigh, translates.

“Cucumber, zucchini, eggplant, carrot.”

“Then give your sister an eggplant and a zucchini,” he orders then turns away to place a pot on the luxurious stove. He sweeps the tomato in it from the elegant wooden cutting board.

A brief yell sounds from behind his back. He jerks his head to see the vegetables and Pietro on the floor, and half of Wanda in the sink, grasping desperately for the tap as her red locks block her sight.

Casually, Erik stops the water with a wave of his hand, and looks at the twins sternly.

“What happened this time?”

The children speak at once.

“Nothing,” says Wanda.

“It was an accident,” says Pietro.

Erik narrows his eyes.

The water is still drip-drip-dripping… tensely, Erik shuts off the tap from the distance, and, right on cue, a weary but ever-so-happy Charles steps in the kitchen. He stops in the doorway while he quickly processes the scene he just walked in on, then gives a kiss on the forehead of both kids with a smile.

“A bit too much speed, was it, Pietro?” His voice is gentle, and it’s more of a statement than a question.

The boy looks up at him with big eyes and nods guiltily, and Charles ruffles his hair before turning to Wanda.

“Do you need my help with drying your hair, sweetie?”

“But then I’ll miss the cooking!”

“We’ll wait for you,” Erik reassures her.

Wanda nods and marches out of the kitchen.

Pietro rushes after her, shouting: “Do you think I can run so fast that it dries your hair?”

Charles walks up to Erik with a giggle and rests his head softly on his chest. He hugs the man tightly and starts stroking his back.

“I’ll read one more chapter by dinner.”

“One? Honey,  _ you  _ could learn the whole book.”

“Even in this state?” Charles blinks up at him with tired eyes.

Erik laughs and presses a kiss on his forehead. “Even in this state. In any state.”

Charles raises his heels up and steals a proper kiss. With a smile, Erik pulls his boyfriend back into his arms and stares out the window above his head.

Later, as they sit around the table at dinner, light conversation fills the big house. Because of Charles munching heartily, Wanda, and then Pietro too, wants to try the vegetarian lasagne. The boy makes a face and returns to his plate, however the girl likes it so much that she announces she’s not eating meat from now on either.

Erik throws an accusatory look at Charles. But the man reassures Wanda with a smile that they, her family, are supportive of her in anything she’d like to do or, in this case, eat. Erik holds back a snappy comment about how much of a model father sentence that was because, thinking of it, Charles really  _ is  _ one ‒ hell, he can even imagine he’s a better parent for his children than he himself.

The last rays of the sundown paint the kitchen to a gold color. Guilt-tainted gratitude runs through Erik’s mind for everything having happened as it did, so he can now be in this castle with Charles and the kids who not only don’t have to do without but he and Charles can provide them with anything they could ever need.

Would it be like this if Magda was alive?

Behind Charles’ smile and everything he does now, he feels guilt knocking. His only sin so far ‒ and ever as he plans ‒ goes against every single strict point of his values. Although it’s slowly eating him up, he doesn’t tell Erik about it; with his looser morals, he wouldn’t understand why it presents a problem to him.

On the bottom of the ornamental closet made from dark wood sit several stocks of still fresh newspapers ‒ Charles couldn’t yet bring himself to burn them and really, irrevocably alter the past at last. He’s wandered on a dangerous path.

The date is quite recent. There is the picture of Erik on the front pages, above them big letters announce:

MURDER


End file.
